I step closer to the barrier, my hand outstretched before I can stop it. I don’t know why this ugly, gnarled, evil crown calls to me, but it is the only thing of this world that is unabashedly real.

Maybe that’s why I can’t help but reach for it.

Just like the dream Arthur walking through me as if I am nothing, my fingers pass through the dream barrier like it never existed at all.

But the crown is solid mass. The instant my fingertips touch the tallest point of the Shadow King’s crown, a black wave of power pulses from its center, right up my arm, and across my chest.

I feel the bloodmark come alive before I see the light shine through my shirt.

And my root comes roaring back to life with it, crimson flames covering me like a blanket and casting the dungeon the color of sweet, furious Bloodcraft. I could cry with relief.

Morgaine’s bloodcurdling scream cuts that short. “Merlin!” she shouts.

I whirl around, bringing the Rootcraft flames with me. Morgaine and Arthur already have blades drawn, both of them.

“Who are you, monster?”

“I-I…,” I stammer, shock that they can see me temporarily overtaking the relief at having my power—any power—back in this realm. “You can see me?”

Morgaine pulls a ball of spinning aether into her palm and draws back as if to throw it. “Whom do you serve?”

“No one!” I say, but make the mistake of holding both hands up in defense. The red flames only climb higher and brighter between us.

A familiar screeching sound splits the air, slicing across the sound of root flames. An eagle owl in flight overhead, then diving down the skylight. A second later, Merlin himself descends between me and Arthur, his eyes reflecting the deep red of root. The murder in the sorcerer’s eyes takes me aback and I nearly fall scrambling away from him. “Diminish your power, or I will do so for you.”

I pull as hard as I can on my root, but it does not disappear, only withdraws enough so that Merlin can see my face—and the glowing bloodmark on my chest.

“You bear the Shadow King’s mark,” Merlin hisses.

“No, it’s the Hunter’s—” The protest dies on my lips.

The Hunter… the Great Devourer… is the Shadow King.

Which means the Shadow King survived Arthur’s attack and lived long enough to bloodmark the Line of Vera.

Every demon that haunted us, no matter how he appeared, was one. A single, ancient demon who marked our power—and who is waiting for his prize.

Before I can process any further, Merlin lunges.

I throw up a wall of flame at the last second, and he roars in pain, jumping back as it burns his palms and arms.